


Don't Tell Dad

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family, Fluff, M/M, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly and Combeferre know that even the best families need to have some secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell Dad

A cry that Combeferre would have recognized anywhere echoed across the playground, and he looked up sharply from his book, instantly finding the little girl he was looked for, sitting on the ground from where she had jumped off the swing. Without another thought, Combeferre stood, shoving the battered paperback into his pocket, and jogged across the playground to scoop the little girl up off the ground. “Isabelle, what happened?” he asked seriously, cradling his daughter in his arms.

She sniffled and pointed at her knee, which had been scraped up by her tumble off the swing. “I got an ouchie,” she said, just as seriously as her dad, but her wide blue eyes reminded him far more of her other father.

Combeferre kissed first her forehead, then her nose, which made her giggle, then lifted her high in the air to press a kiss to her knee (but only after a brief examination to make sure that the wound was clean, just a normal scrape). She giggled again but told him sternly, “Dad says you shouldn’t kiss ouchies because your mouth has bac…bac…bacterum.”

“Bacteria,” Combeferre said, hiding a smile. “Well, your dad is right, there are bacteria in our mouths, but sometimes it’s ok because it makes you feel better, you know?”

She scrunched her face as if considering it, then asked innocently, “You mean like how ice cream can be bad for you but it makes you feel better?”

Combeferre chuckled. “Kind of like that, yes.”

“Then you should get me ice cream!” Isabelle sounded inordinately thrilled with herself and Combeferre couldn’t help but laugh, kissing her forehead again.

“You little devil,” he said, but his voice was fond. “Alright, I’ll get you ice cream. But only if you promise me one thing, alright Izzy?”

She blinked up at him with her blue eyes so very much like Joly’s. “Anything, Daddy.”

“Don’t tell your dad.”

* * *

 

A few years later, Joly sat at the kitchen table across from Isabelle, who was busy working on her math homework. Her little brother Sam was taking a nap in his room. Combeferre had a late meeting so Joly had taken the afternoon off from the hospital to stay home with the kids, using it as time to catch up on his paperwork.

They spent several minutes in comfortable silence until Isabelle sighed heavily and put her head down on the table. “Dad, I hate math,” she groaned. “It’s stupid and it’s pointless and I hate it so much.”

Joly chuckled lightly. “Don’t let your father hear you say that,” he said mildly, marking down one more thing on his paper before setting his pen down and peering at her over his reading glasses. “But you know math isn’t useless, sweetie. It’s the building blocks of logic; it teaches you how to think.”

“At the moment it’s just giving me a headache,” she grumbled.

A small smile spread across Joly’s face, a fond smile, recognizing the set of her jaw and the way she massaged her temples as little traits that she had picked up from Combeferre. And he also recognized the stubbornness in the hunch of her shoulders, and knew from years of experience with Combeferre that she was not going to accomplish much. “Why don’t you take a little break?” he suggested. “Just a half hour or so, clear your mind.”

She looked up at him, surprised. “Daddy never lets me take a break. He says that I’ll do best when I’m focused, that I’ll just get distracted if I take a break. He says I’m too much like you to relax when I’m in the middle of something.”

Now Joly’s smile grew. “Your father is a very perceptive man, but I think you’re a lot like him, too. Which means sometimes you need to take a break to recharge, to refocus. And that’s ok, dearest.”

“Does that mean I can watch TV?” she asked.

Joly looked at the earnest look on her face and any of Combeferre’s railings against television as replacing children’s natural ability to imagine and problem solve died on his tongue. “Fine,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just don’t tell your father.”

* * *

 

Sam hung on the front of the grocery cart, scuffing his sneakers against the floor as he gave Combeferre his most pleading face. “Please Daddy?” he said, holding the candy bar in one hand as he adjusted his glasses with the other, surprising Combeferre as always with how much he looked just like Combeferre when he was that age. “Dad never lets me get candy because he says I could get diabetes.”

“Fine,” Combeferre sighed, grabbing the candy bar and tossing it into the cart. “Don’t tell your dad.”

* * *

 

“What are you reading?” Joly asked, leaning against the door frame of Sam’s bedroom.

Sam didn’t look up, just heaved a deep sigh as he flipped a page in his book. “ _The Scarlet Letter_. And it sucks.”

Joly clucked his tongue sympathetically. “I remember reading that,” he said. “It did suck.” He bit his lip indecisively. “Hold on a second,” he told Sam, heading into the living room to grab something.

When he got back, he tossed what he had grabbed on to Sam’s bed. “What’s this?” Sam asked curiously.

“ _The Scarlet Letter_. The movie. Not the one with Demi Moore.” Joly winked at Sam. “It’ll give you the basics of what you need to know. Though you should definitely still read the book, ok?”

“Thanks Dad!” Sam said enthusiastically, grabbing his laptop to pop in the DVD.

Joly grinned at him. “Not a problem. Just, you know—”

Sam glanced up, grinning as well. “Yeah, I know. Don’t tell Daddy.”

* * *

 

Bahorel sat on one side of Isabelle, Grantaire the other, each holding one of her hands, watching like hawks as the tattoo artist finished the script on her hip. When it was finished, she stood up and looked at in the mirror, squealing, “Oh my God, this is so cool! Thank you so much!”

As she gave first Bahorel and then Grantaire a hug, they both looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Just don’t tell your dads.”

* * *

 

Joly and Combeferre lay in bed together, limbs twined together as they cuddled. Combeferre leaned in and kissed Joly’s forehead. “So, what did you make Sam promise not to tell me today?” he asked, his voice rumbling against Joly.

“Mmm he’s using Sparknotes for Macbeth,” Joly said, yawning.

Combeferre traced Joly’s spine with his finger, grinning as he shivered from the touch. “That’s not such a bad thing,” he remarked. “I never really liked Macbeth. I preferred the Bard’s comedies.”

Joly laughed slightly. “What about you? Any secrets you made them pledge to keep from me?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Combeferre said with a yawn. “At least, nothing that you don’t already know.”

Propping himself up on his elbow, Joly ran his fingers through Combeferre’s hair. “Do you ever wonder if we’re doing the right thing, teaching them to keep secrets from us?”

Combeferre propped himself up as well, and leaned in to kiss Joly. “No, I don’t. It teaches them that they can come to us with a problem and we won’t tell anyone if they don’t want us to. And based on how they’ve grown up, it appears to have worked for them. Besides,” he added, his eyes twinkling mischievously, “it keeps the mystery alive.”

Joly laughed again and kissed Combeferre. “Well, you’re the one who took a psych course, so I will take your word for it.” He turned over to slot himself against Combeferre, smiling when Combeferre’s arms automatically encircled him and pulled him close. “Goodnight. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Combeferre said. After a long moment, he added sleepily, his lips brushing against Joly’s shoulder, “We are going to have to talk to Izzy tomorrow about the tattoo Bahorel and Grantaire took her to get.”

Joly sat bolt upright. “What tattoo?!” he squawked.


End file.
